"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes
down."
"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.
"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore.
I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in
with me. You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the
result--'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere. Lucky for you you
didn't plunge."
"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"
"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up
some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.
"I didn't sleep much last night. I expect I want my holiday."
"Like the rest of us. Two weeks in the year are no good to any one.
Well, so long! Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."
"I am quite ready," answered Barton.
His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed
out of the office. As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton
suddenly realized that they might never meet again. Steele had been
one of his few friends--a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had
always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious
tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or
keener intelligence than their own. Steele would be sorry if things
went wrong. He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in
future with anything but contempt.
Three o'clock! Another twenty minutes. They were in the paddock
now. Relf would be examining his saddle. He could picture the
scene; the crush round the favourite. No doubt "Mountain Lady"----
Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically,
adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the
least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he
was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking
on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two
hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last
night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It
had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had
waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was
numbed and powerless.
Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather,
as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver
and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a
regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being
stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course."
A quarter past. God--how the moments dragged! They were lining up,
perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he
might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew!
There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out
almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A
strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was
all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes.
He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were
being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of
a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap
in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had
been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his
seat, walked to the cashier's desk.
"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.
The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be
busy again in a minute."
"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.
By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged
little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in
pursuit of customers. Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed
across to him.
"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it,
giving him a shilling.
"You can keep the change," he said.
With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on. Barton stepped back to
the wall and opened the paper. In the blank space reserved for
stop-press news was the single word "_Kildonen_." It was in blue
ink, stamped in by a local agent. Barton stared at it for a moment,
and then laughed. So he had lost. He felt no particular
emotion--just a vague disappointment. Remorse and fear left him
untouched. He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now
remained was to pay the price.
He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the
saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the
corner saw the newspaper in his hand.
"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.
"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like.
I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly
level, disinterested voice.
Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked
back to the office. As he again crossed the road, a man raced past
him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind
him. The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear
the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road. He hesitated a
moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had
been in the first three. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked
on. After all, what did it matter?
There were no customers in the office. He passed through the side
door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and
hats. From here a staircase led down into the strong-room. He knew
that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could
scarcely reach the bank. It was more pleasant to die without being
interrupted.
He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that
illuminated the big safe. Taking out his revolver, he tested the
trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges.
Now everything was ready. There was no time to lose, for Furze would
probably be sending down for him in a minute. He felt sorry for the
clerk who would come to fetch him. He caught hold of the big, brass
handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place,
when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs. For
an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his
pocket, pushed back the door.
"Barton! Barton!" It was Steele's voice. He rushed into the safe
with a paper in his hand. "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed,
flinging it down on the slab.
"I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton
wearily.
"Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the
circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all."
"What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely.
"Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele. "Kildonen's'
disqualified--look!" He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.
With a savage effort the latter choked back a deadly faintness that
almost overpowered him, and through the dim mist that swam before his
eyes, read the lines that Steele pointed out: